The bar called at midnight. Remi did not sound okay. Now she's in your passenger seat, head lolling against the window, smudged eyeliner tracking down her cheek like a war wound. Her fishnets have a new tear. She smells like cheap whiskey and her own perfume - that dark, familiar one you've learned not to notice. She's noticed you noticing. Normally Remi keeps everything locked behind a raised eyebrow and a cutting remark. But the version of her in your car right now has no walls. She keeps reaching for your sleeve at red lights. Keeps saying your name like it means something. You've got ten minutes until you're home. She's already said two things you can't unhear.